Kell spun slowly in the saddle, taking in the battlefield around him. The tide had turned but not fully. Not yet. The weight of blood loss left a nausea at the edge of his vision, and he gritted his teeth against the pull of darkness.
Hooves clattered behind him. A horse galloped through the chaos, pushing past fleeing soldiers and crashing shields. Lord Trellion.
"You've looked better, Captain," Trellion called, a crooked smile on his face as he dismounted with practiced grace. "Or should I say… King?"
Kell smirked weakly, offering his hand. "Highlord is fine for now. The King part can come after we've won."
They clasped arms, a moment of old trust shared in silence. But Trellion's gaze lingered on the red-soaked bandage at Kell's shoulder, the space where an arm had once been.
Kell caught the look. "You remember what I said at the Battle of the Beasts? When we put down that war-monger threatening our borders?"
Trellion's voice turned low, almost reverent. "Sacrifices must be made. And why not us?"
"Right. So don't look at me like I'm some poor dog who lost a leg," Kell growled, slapping Trellion's back with his remaining hand.
Trellion said nothing. But his guilt was plain. If he'd ridden sooner, if he hadn't hesitated... maybe Kell would still have both arms.
Across the bloodstained field, Torik moved like a phantom. A blur of steel and shadow, he tore through enemy ranks, slicing through confusion and armor alike. Veilbinding shimmered around him, misleading strikes, making him flicker at the edge of sight, while musclebinding launched him into impossible leaps. He was a force. A storm. A reckoning.
Trellion's eyes widened. "That's the thief?"
Kell raised a brow. "Where'd you hear about him?"
"Please," Trellion laughed. "Rumor runs faster than Galrick's wine-soaked tongue. And that boy's at the center of every one."
Torik landed nearby and nodded at Kell.
"Torik," Kell said, gesturing. "This is Lord Trellion. He just saved our arses."
Torik looked Trellion over, unimpressed. "You're late."
Kell's eyes widened. "Watch your tongue, boy-"
Trellion held up a hand, amused. "It's alright. He's not wrong. And I respect a man who speaks plainly, regardless of blood."
Torik didn't smile, but a sliver of approval passed between them.
Torik looked to Kell, "I'm going to kill Galrick. Cut off their command structure."
Kell stiffened. "No. That's not how we do things. It's our honor that sets us apart from the ones we fight against."
He stepped forward and pressed a finger into Kell's chest.
"No," Torik said, voice like flint. "It's what sets you apart. I'm not a knight. I'm a thief. And I don't need honor to make the right decision."
Trellion's smirk faded into contemplation.
"Let him go," Trellion said. "But be wary, boy. I've heard whispers about Galrick. He's not ordinary."
Kell reached out. "Wait-"
But Torik was already gone. A blur of motion, darting across the battlefield toward the raised command hill.
Galrick stood near the rear, barking orders as he adjusted troop positions with cruel precision. His sword leaned like a cane at his side, a prop for a man too confident in control.
"You, go send for-"
The officer beside him choked mid-step. A silver gleam flashed. Blood sprayed.
The body hit the ground.
Galrick froze. Then slowly turned.
A second flash. A second corpse.
The air shimmered and Torik stood before him. Dagger dripping, eyes narrowed.
"So," Galrick said, voice casual, "you came. I assume not at Kell's request."
Torik didn't respond. He stepped forward, muscles tensed. "You marched on him. Now you'll die for it."
Galrick chuckled. "Boy, you may be remarkable but the world has seen a thousand men like you. And it has buried all of them."
Torik leapt, dagger slicing in a clean arc. Galrick twisted aside, narrowly avoiding the blade.
"I'll warn you once," Galrick said calmly, "If you strike again… it may be fatal. For you."
Torik attacked anyway. Then he raised his hand to Torik, palm out, and something inside of him changed.
What was that?
He ignored it and gripped his dagger then lunged forward and landed a strike.
The blade pierced Galrick's side.
Torik gasped.
A searing pain exploded in his own side. He stumbled back, nearly falling.
Blood bloomed beneath his tunic.
What…?
"What did you do?" Torik gasped, pressing a hand to his ribs. "What the hell did you do to me?"
Galrick smiled, hand pressed to his identical wound.
"Tell me, boy. What are you? A musclebinder? A veilbinder?" He paused, eyes narrowing. "Or both?"
Torik gritted his teeth. "What's it to you?"
"Tell me yours, I'll tell you mine."
Torik stared. Every instinct screamed at him to run. But something about Galrick, the power, the composure, it froze him.
"…Both," Torik said. "So what?"
Galrick stepped forward, blood trailing down his side, unconcerned. "Fascinating."
He drew a breath. Then offered a whisper, heavy with strange pride.
"I'm a Soulbinder."
Torik's brow furrowed. "What?"
Galrick's voice took on a preacher's lilt. "A rare Bound Art. Some say it was Tharoghul's first gift. I can bind souls, tie mine to others. When I wound, they wound. When I fall, so do they. We're linked now, you and I."
Torik's mouth went dry. He staggered, realization hitting like a hammer.
"You mean… if I kill you-"
"I die," Galrick nodded. "And so do you."